Some of the icons painted on the Woodbrooke course. Photo: Martyn Kelly.
‘I am witnessing, it seems, a Meeting for Worship stretched out over time.’
Orthodox icons and being gathered. Martyn Kelly paints a picture.
I am in a gathered silence but not in a Quaker Meeting, in a building that, in terms of ostentatious decoration, is ying to the Meeting house’s plain yang. The space – an Orthodox church in Bucharest – is empty save for a few people moving around with purpose. They cross the open floor of the church, stand before an icon in silence, cross themselves, then bend to kiss the icon before moving to the next.
We think of Meeting for Worship as a communal event, starting with one person entering a Meeting room and turning their mind to the light. Another person comes in and turns to the same light. Together, we produce a gathered stillness. The Orthodox, too, gather for communal worship but they also place emphasis on silent communion between these services. What I learned in Bucharest is that it is possible to achieve a gathered sense without, necessarily, everyone being together. Quaker Meetings follow Jesus’ words: ‘Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there I am in the midst of them.’ In this Orthodox church, however, the three become two then, after a few moments, another joins… yet they are still gathered. I am witnessing, it seems, a Meeting for Worship stretched out over time.
Ministry in these situations comes through images – another practice that is alien to modern Quakers. Let’s be clear: the Orthodox faithful venerate, rather than worship, icons. This can be a subtle distinction, but the focus should always be on what the icon represents, rather than on the object itself. The icon and the painter play crucial roles in this process, with some aspects in stark contrast to Quaker practice but, in others, curiously similar.
The difference is the Orthodox church’s respect for images: a tradition that extends back to the Roman empire. To the outsider it can look as if icon painters have learned nothing from the Renaissance, but turn this presumption around and this tradition becomes a strength: an unbroken chain of faithful copies that links the modern Orthodox Christian with the archetypes from which the images were derived.
But the traditions of icon painting extend beyond process, and this is where a Quaker may find resonances. An icon is an image but an image is not, necessarily, an icon in the sense that an Orthodox Christian would understand. An icon is the outcome of prayer and meditation just as much as of a particular painting style. Icon painting, to the Orthodox faithful, is a ministry – a visual form of what Quakers do vocally.
There is also a synergy between the process and the spiritual aspects of iconography. The painstaking process of mixing pigments and applying multiple thin layers requires a quiet mind and, in turn, creates space for contemplation. Woodbrooke’s course on ‘Icon painting as a spiritual practice’ is as much a retreat as a painting course. Outwardly, the end product is a small painted icon to take away. More than this, however, we emerge with a little more understanding of another approach to faith; we are a little wiser and, maybe, a little humbler too.
